


Dandelion Journal

by Kronos013



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Bad Writing, Read if you like do not feel as though you have to, be warned, i have no writing skills
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-12-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 11:01:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kronos013/pseuds/Kronos013
Summary: If someone happens to stumble upon this feel free to read it. Do not feel obligated to. This is just getting some thoughts down that I’ve had for some time. I wanted to tell someone so now that someone is this website and everyone on it.If you still want to read this after that lousy description be warned the writing will probably be worse.
Kudos: 1





	1. Wispy

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my story... good luck?

I am a dandelion. One of those flowers people give wishes too. I know it sounds weird, but it’s true. This type of dandelion are not the ones that are almost gold color that you string together into flower crowns(those sure are hard to make.) The golden ones are stronger than the ones I am. Specifically I am a Taraxacum Erythrospermum commonly known as a red-seeded dandelion. Easily breakable and almost useless. Almost useless. Not fully. Their purpose is to be broken down by the slightest breeze. They have a purpose. I classify people by different things, like flower species. Not by what they look like, no. Not by who they look to be. It’s based upon their personality underneath it all. Their character. That is what helps to define who they are in one of my descriptions. I found out what I am recently. It’s taken me awhile to figure it out but I think I finally have my definition pinned down. 

I told one of my friends about this description process I have. Their first question was “What am I?” “What about my boyfriend?” “Our mutual friend?” I’m happy I did not have to explain my own. Because there would have been nothing to tell. I am a dandelion. I think that says a lot about me. Others might think it’s absolute rubbish. I know who I am. At least I think I do.

If my friend had asked why I chose each of these I might not have been able to answer. I use these to describe what cannot be. This friend of mine is a mighty pine tree. They will be mighty soon. They are merely a sapling right now. Why are they a pine? I do not know, but they are. 

My brain does not come up with easy answers to these sorts of things. “Why?” someone might ask, and I will have no answer. “How do you do that” they ask. I wish I knew as well. Why does it make sense one moment and the next I have no recollection?

My favorite book is a book called ‘Flowerpedia.’ As the name implies it is a pedia of flowers. I can scan it and describe someone I had not described before. 

A girl I knew briefly was a Lily. An acquaintance I have is one of those corn dog shaped reeds you will find next to ponds. A cattail. My closest friend does not have one yet. My mother does. I forget what it is. Lilac I think. Everyone has one. I just do not know who has what. 

Flower is a simpler language than English or Spanish or French.

I am a dandelion.


	2. Crotched

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just note I was sick when I wrote this, hope it doesn't have too many errors.

There are certain things that feel good to everyone. Each person has their own specifics things. Whether it is a more physical feeling or an emotional type of feeling everyone has something. That's what I think at least. And I’m no philosophy expert by any means. Is this even philosophy? I don’t know. I guess I have a specific feel I like as well. A tangible one.

I have this friend, let’s call her B. B crochets and no she isn’t some old lady in a rocking chair making little blankets or a pregnant woman making baby socks. She is just one of my friends. A very caring one. So caring and sweet that she uses her crochet powers to make little things here and there for some of our friends. B has given a frog to my best friend, a pig to an acquaintance of mine, and the first one, a little white rabbit about six inches tall with long, white, hand crocheted ears. Its nose is a little crooked and the tail isn’t knotted on well. But it is pleasing in its design.

This little rabbit, affectionately named Snowball, was given to one of my more eccentric friends. She’s weird but great.

She got the rabbit for Christmas from B. It was the first time we saw one of B’s creations. It was passed around to look at and hug. My friend keeps it with her a lot. One time when my best friend wasn’t feeling well she gave it to him to hold. He started talking a minute to two after. This may sound insignificant but it usually takes a while for him to talk when he is angry or down.

Snowball has also been thrown. Down hallways for her to chase after or up in the air to catch again. That hasn’t happened to it recently though. Besides a few of the guys in our group the rest hate it.

We haven’t seen Snowball in a while but it is my favorite feeling.

It is my favorite feeling. The ears are as long as my father’s finger. The fore and hind paws are small crocheted balls sewn on to the round body. The head is almost as big as the body, falling over to the side a lot. The eyes are just small black yarn wadded up into tiny balls low on the rabbit’s face.

The yarn is not soft. You could not use this yarn to make a baby blanket. But it is also not rough, it does not scrape against dry skin, it does not glide either. The ears are smoother than the rest though.

I’ve held the rabbit only a few times. The tangible feeling I love are the ears. Running my thumb back and forth across the yarn’s surface. It brings me inexpiable joy.

Other people experience more emotional feelings. The feeling of recognition, the feeling of winning. I’ve known some who like to feel beaten down so they can feel the euphoria of getting back up again. The feeling of adrenaline coursing through your entire being. The drop of energy. Some people like feelings others give. Some people like feelings they find themselves.

Everyone has their own favorite feelings.

I like the feeling of a crocheted rabbit’s ears.


	3. Questions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Excuse any misspellings I wrote this at one in the morning. (Tell me if ya find them so I can fix them)

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” It’s a common phrase that adults think is appropriate to ask children who can barely talk, let alone think about their future in detail.

“Ooooooh does little baby Johnny have a girlfriend?” They might add when a little boy named Johnny rolled his eyes past the little girl who was the same age as him, not even 3.

“So what about her?” Johnny’s dad might ask as they are watching a movie with an aesthetically pleasing female lead... when he was 14.

Parents and other adults who have no right to an opinion over these kids' lives make out their futures for them. It causes spurts of anxiety, doubt and occasionally spurts of literal midnight writing(this is totally a metaphor.) My question is why? Why do you want your kid to have every single thing planned out by age 17? Is it fair to put all this stress and expectations on them? I doubt it. But I don’t even think parents question themselves when they do this. They just become that way when they get old. Like it’s somehow engraved into everyone’s DNA that once you turn 30 you just have be nosey about children's lives for no reason. Though in retrospect some of these kids have answers straight away.

“I wanna be a pilot... a vet... a firefighter... a chef.” All very common answers to a very common question. But some kids don’t have an answer. Not when they are 5, not when they are 10, not when they are 14 and are freshmans, and definitely not when they are sixteen and expected by their families, peers, and teachers to be going to college. Who the heck thought that kids should choose what they do for the rest of their lives at sixteen. 

The majority of them are wrong. If you ask a 100 college graduates “Are you working in your major?” 50 of them would say they never have(true fact look it up.) Let me go a little farther with these questions?

“What are you gonna name your first kid?” I’ve heard this one a startling amount of times, not directed at me for the most part but I’ve got it a few times.

“You have a girlfriend/boyfriend yet?” The intrusive and unasked for questions never end.

“So are you finally going to propose or break it off?” Why do people even ask these questions?

“You know I bet you’ll find the perfect man and then you’ll have kids and you will never want to leave the house again.” Thanks for your sexist thoughts please go away.

Constant questions, constant prying open of doors that shouldn’t have been there in the first place. Anxiety that crawls from between the cracks for no reason but to peaster and make life harder. The constant back and forth of telling someone a vague enough response for them to go away but at the same time wanting to tell them to visit Satan. Wanting so deep inside to have an answer of what’s the future going to be like but at the same time knowing that those questions can’t be answered until the time comes, sometimes it’s too late. Too late for college, too late to get a new job, too late to have kids, too late to get married. But it’s not too late. For anyone. Unless you are going to die in the next hour your time isn’t up yet. The reaper hasn’t come for you. What can you do with your life should be the question? Some people’s answers will be limited but most can say “Anything.” I can’t not since I was three or four and I was diagnosed with severe asthma. But I can do anything besides breath normally. Well besides my vision that’s going slowly. 

It’s not my time yet. I can still answer those questions with a smirk and a particular finger raised in the asker’s face. Haven’t done it yet, but I could. 

You can’t answer everyone’s questions and especially not all of the ones tumbling around in your brain, trust me I’ve had my share, but you don’t have to even try if you don’t want to.

I can’t answer these questions. I can’t answer a single one.


	4. Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This isn't really a late night piece but it works. Does anyone read these? I know I haven't posted in a while.

Have you ever walked away just to cry? Or do you stare into the face of the person who told you the news and let the tears flow?

When you hear someone cry or see the shivers begin can you console them?

Crying is personal. It is something that everyone does and should do. I took an advanced course on neural pathways and chemicals last year. Crying gets rid of the bad chemicals. That’s why tears are salty, the pathways in the brain are connected by salt water and to get rid of the built up chemicals it has to go through the stream of neurons and then it flows to the tear ducts and falls down your face.

It is just salty water but some people make a big deal out of it. I don’t mind if someone cries in front of me. I don’t know what to do but I do not mind. I can’t stand hearing someone cry though, it feels so different that seeing it. If you see it you can see if they are truly sad or if they got good news. If you hear it, you can’t do anything. They might want privacy, they might not. But as I said before, some people make a big deal out of crying.

I try not to cry in front of people. When a person sees another crying they try to console them. I’m not all that good with people trying to ‘console’ me. I end up walking away if I feel the pressure start to rise. I don’t want sympathy like that. I do not want a hug and I do not want pity. But I still cry, just because I don’t do it in front of others doesn’t mean I don’t have any emotions. One of my friends said I was a robot once. I cry though. Fun fact: I always cry writing these. Emotion release is good.

There was a time where my mother was in the hospital. I was a weird time and I was conflicted about a lot of things. I was too young to really be in the loop with doctors and what was happening. I could never understand the medical jargon they used. I heard one thing though. 

“This disease has a fourteen percent survival rate.” I knew what that meant. When we got home from visiting her that night I went to my room. My great aunt was staying with our family at the time and she followed me to my room. I didn’t cry. We watched The Sword in the Stone. I cried watching the movie. It is a good movie and I recommend watching it.

I cry watching movies... reading books... watching old cartoons. I don’t crumble when I hear bad news.

Crying makes me think more. I don’t know if that's just me but I can never just lay down and cry. I have to either do something or think. And think. I usually think a lot.

Why am I crying?

Should I tell my therapist about this? (Spoiler: I never do (talk to your therapist y’all).)

What if things were different?

Crying is soothing and gives me an excuse to be alone. Even if my neck is wet by the end of it. As someone who is really pale it takes me a while to get rid of the flush under my eyes and across my cheeks but after that I can step into the light again.

After that I can return to an emotionless robot.


End file.
